No One Together
by Bewilder'd
Summary: "Do that again, Winchester," Black said, green eyes flashing, "and you'll find yourself right back in the pit. I helped drag you out-I'll be glad to be the one to throw you back in." The angels, able only to bring a soul back from Hell, need to call on a different power to bring the soul back from death. Enter Harry Black, Master of Death. Will be updated on Saturdays.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter, Supernatural Crossover.**

**EWE, CanonCompliant Up to Lazarus Rising, Through Book 7**

**Rated T**

**No Pairings**

**Summary: Harry Black: Master of Death, called upon by the angels to assist in raising Dean Winchester from Hell.**

**Author: Bewilder'd**

Red. Blood—bone. Pain. His, someone else's. It didn't matter. He didn't care. Pain was all there was. Red. Blood—bone. Pain.

Darkness.

Darkness? Dean smelled—he smelled dirt, and wood. Two things he hadn't smelled in—in so long now, he was surprised he remembered what they were called. He fumbled, hoping, and was again surprised—there was a lighter. He flicked it, flicked it again, and there was flame. His mind flashed back to red and pain, but he forced himself to practicality.

He was in a box. His breath came faster, and faster—why a box? What fresh hell—pardon the pun—was this?

He yelled—tried to yell—"help" but only a hoarse mockery of the word came out. He pushed—pushed up on the lid of the box, and the dirt came rushing through, falling in on him, collapsing. His hand broke the surface, and he could feel a different sort of heat touching his skin—a heat that felt gentle, for once, instead of sharp and biting and hateful.

The rest of him followed his hand, and he breathed, finally, fresh air. Air that didn't smell of blood, but of grass and sky.

Where was he?

He stood, and looked. The entire field surrounding his grave—and he would have to talk to Sammy about that—looked as though it had been nuked.

…..harrypottersupernatural….

Dr and Mrs Connor of number 8 Gardenia Lane were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Their lawn was mowed once a week, their plants watered and weeded, their house clean and sparkling and just like one might see in a magazine. They had a cat and a small dog, who took pride in fetching the newspaper to them every morning. It was a perfect lifestyle.

Of course, their neighbors—enough to make any suburban family just _shudder_. At first they had been excited at the prospect of British neighbors. Though they were foreign, British people were supposed to be just oh-so-polite. But these! That boy, who couldn't be more than thirteen years old at the very most, had _bright blue hair._ Blue. What father allowed his son to dye his hair _blue?_

And the father. He must have been very young at the time that his son was born. He could claim good genes, but even good genes couldn't keep a thirty three year old man looking as though he were twenty two all his life. And they never saw him working, or going to work, or doing anything of the sort. And he kept an _owl_ for a pet. What a family, the Blacks.

Dr and Mrs Connor just shook their heads and ducked away from greeting the Blacks on the street, avoiding them at all costs whenever they could. It was better to just not associate with them at all, except, of course, when the little blue haired kid came over to mow their lawn once a week for five dollars.

So when a knock on the door sounded late one day—the 18th of September, Mr Connor remembered it vividly—and he opened the door to someone he usually never saw except for maybe once a week, he was shocked into silence.

"Dr Connor!" the younger one—Teddy—greeted. "My dad—he just fell—he won't wake up, Dr Connor. I need your help! Please, will you help me?"

Dr Connor just blinked, his mouth gaping a little. He slowly nodded, realizing that his wife was out for cards with her sister and friends, so she wouldn't have to know.

"Thank you," Teddy said, desperation fading a little from his voice now he had help. He took off across the street, fluffy blue hair bouncing on his head with each step before Dr Connor could even take three. He left the door open for the adult to follow through, going immediately to the living room off the hallway, where the older Black was sprawled haphazardly on the couch. He was half falling off, and it looked as though Teddy had tried to get him as much onto the cushions as he could, but a panicking tenten year old wasn't going to manage much, even if the adult wasn't a large one.

Dr Connor turned to the ten year old. "Why didn't you just call 9-1-1?"

"Dad doesn't like hospitals, he'd prefer not to go, but he's been like this for three hours," Teddy said. "I just—I'd rather ask you. Can't you help him, Dr Connor?"

Dr Connor sighed, but nodded, and took the vital signs of their strange neighbor. He seemed fine—except that he was unconscious. "Has he ever had episodes like this before, Teddy?"

The boy shook his blue head. "He's fazed out a few times, but nothing like this. And there's an explanation for those—and maybe for this too, I just can't think of why it would be going on this long."

Dr Connor bent over the man again, wondering—he hoped the man didn't have a brain tumor or something. Maybe it was a rare form of epilepsy. Suddenly, the elder Black shot up, hitting Dr Connor in his forehead with his own, sending both reeling backward with hands pressed to now aching skulls.

"Ow," Black said, as though surprised. He stared at Dr Connor with bright green eyes, unlined despite whatever age he was, and blinked at him. "What are you doing here, Adam?" he asked, rubbing at the red mark forming over the strange scar under his bangs.

"Your kid said you passed out about three hours ago, wanted to know if you were going to be alright," Dr Connor said, straightening and standing. His work here was done, now that Black had woken up. "I see that you're alright now, so I'm going." He nodded sharply. "Good bye."

Black frowned. "Yes, I'm fine now. Sorry about that, I wish I'd been able to warn Teddy—that was nothing unusual. But this will be the last we'll see of you and Hannah, Adam. Teddy and I will be moving soon."

"Oh," Dr Connor said, surprised, and not trying to hide that he was slightly pleased at the news. Though he would have to find someone new to mow the lawn when his wife was at work. "Good luck then."

"We're leaving?" Teddy asked, frowning at his father. "Why?"

"Hush, love, I'll explain," Black said quietly, eyes darting to the doctor. Dr Connor shrugged—he didn't care. "Thanks again, Adam. Good bye."

Dr Connor saw himself out.

…..harrypottersupernatural….

Teddy immediately turned to him after the muggle had left. "Why are we leaving?" he demanded.

Harry grinned. "No, 'are you okay?' I did just spend the last three hours on an alternate plane of existence without any sort of preparation, and no warning."

"No. You're making me move, and I just got settled in!" Teddy protested, crossing his arms. His hair mulishly turned the same brown as his father's had once been—he knew that it played on his adoptive dad's guilt, and he used that as much as he could.

Harry huffed. "Teddy, you don't even go to a muggle school. You're home-schooled. We Floo to visit the family, take portkeys. The only people we really know are Adam and Hannah Connor, and they hate us. You mow their lawn, and that's about it."

Teddy frowned and scuffed his foot. "I like the house." He perked up for a moment. "Where are we going?"

"South Dakota," Harry told him, smiling when he realized the fight was mostly over.

"Isn't that the place with the faces in the mountains?" Teddy asked, thinking a moment.

"There's also a place called the Badlands," Harry asked, knowing the name would perk the interest of a ten year old. "I might take you to visit if you're good and don't show any magic around our new neighbors—they might get jumpy."

"Jumpy how?" Teddy asked, amber eyes narrowing. They were the only things the metamorphamagus ever had trouble changing anymore, one remnant of his werewolf genetics.

"Hunter jumpy," Harry admitted. It wouldn't be their first experience with hunters, not in the least. America, it seemed, had run wild with magic, which had corrupted vampires and werewolves and a few other magical creatures which were generally less harmful. Others were already like that, and worsened by the wild magic, and then there were the demons besides. Aurors tended to take care of those in England and a few other European countries, but Harry and his son had been quick to realize that there was no such force in America. Only muggle hunters—muggle hunters who hadn't heard of a born-witch or -wizard, which meant that his kind had done a remarkable job of hiding from them, he had to say.

"Great," Teddy grumbled. He wrinkled his nose a bit, and his hair shifted to a messy black, his nose and some of his face shape to match Harry's, and his eye shape changed to almond. Amber still shone from beneath black lashes, but he could be Harry's son genetically this way. "Black is so boring."

Harry laughed and mussed his hair. "Pack up, kiddo. We're leaving tomorrow—a friend of mine is already getting us set up with a house."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the reviews :D**

**A great deal of this chapter comes from the television show, of which I own nothing.**

**It'll start picking up pace soon, promise.**

"Love the house, Castiel," Harry told him, looking up at the place with approving green eyes. It was small, old, a bit full of weeds, but something about it seemed alive. Probably the over grown tree and the very enthusiastic patch of flowers and weeds and some kind of vine that had tried to take over the front lawn, but Harry liked it. Kind of reminded him of Herbology, back in the day.

"I thought it would suit its purpose," Castiel replied in a distracted monotone. Teddy was tugging at the edge of his trenchcoat.

"Can I go inside, Castiel?" he asked, unfazed by the fact that he had just met an Angel of the Lord. Harry smiled at him fondly as Castiel handed him the key, and the boy ran ahead to go look around.

"I took care to have it cleaned and furnished so that you would both be comfortable," Castiel informed him. "You will put up your own wards, but I added some sigils against entities you may be unfamiliar with."

"Thank you, Castiel." Harry felt a rush of gratitude—he himself had only met the angel the day before, when he had been roughly grabbed from his body to assist with a raising. "We really appreciate this. After—yesterday, I'm afraid the demons would have realized where I was." The rush of his power leaving and entering his body in such a way left a distinct trace of magic, one he knew they would be able to follow directly from the body of the risen vessel to his home once they realized that he wasn't one of the angels. He would be able to survive any of their attacks, but he would rather not risk Teddy just to stay in some small Florida town.

"It is our fault. And call on us, should you require," Castiel commanded, handing him his own key. Harry took it with a nod of gratitude. "We owe you a great debt, Master Black."

"Harry," he told him. "Just Harry, please."

Castiel nodded his head. "Harry, then." Suddenly, he tensed, back straight, eyes toward the sky. Harry narrowed his green gaze, changing the view he had on the world as one might change glasses—suddenly, he was looking on the celestial being, Castiel the Angel, light and wings and power.

His head—or the aura around what looked to be his head—was tilted to one side, listening to something Harry couldn't hear. "My name is Castiel, and I warn you to turn away." He paused. "Turn back, stop searching and seeking, this path is not for you—it will be your destruction and your doom. I am Castiel, I warn you to turn away." He paused again, and a light shuddered out from his face in waves like a sigh. "Very well, your path is sealed."

Harry was able to hear the woman's scream that followed.

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural….

* * *

They were just waiting. Bobby sat across from Dean at a table piled with weapons, in a room filled with sigils and runes and they just waited—earlier they had dodged Sam, wherever he had gotten off to, and decided to summon the thing that had brought Dean back from Hell. It was taking a lot longer than they thought it would have.

Bobby whistled, immediately setting Dean off. He glared at the old man for a minute. They had been there for what felt like ages.

"You sure you did the ritual right?" Dean asked, shifting his weapon and giving Bobby a look to emphasize his impatience.

As though the words themselves were the final part of the ritual, there was a crash and the walls began to shake.

"Wishful thinking, but maybe its just the wind," Dean said, looking around. Even the lights were beginning to smoke, unfazed by the sigils and runes decking the walls and floor. They burst when the doors opened to reveal the thing they summoned—some guy in a trenchcoat like a kid playing at detective, with black hair and pale skin. Dean paused to see if he would be fazed by the Devil's Trap—he wasn't, but that didn't mean he wasn't some other form of creature. Dean didn't lower the shotgun, in fact was more determined than ever to use it.

Kid-detective just keeps walking through the salt-rounds as though they've been shooting him with nothing but the sounds themselves. Dean shared a scared—not scared, but oh-shit look with Bobby before grabbing the demon knife.

"Who are you?" he demands of the man.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition," the man said, an absolutely guileless expression on his face—Dean was not fooled. Sammy had used that one on him far too often for it to work now.

"Yeah," Dean answered, studying him warily. "Thanks for that."

The man nodded ever so slightly, and Dean took his chance—he darted forward with the knife, and stabbed it directly into the man's heart. The man looked at the knife, and then Dean, with the same expression one might give to a misbehaving child—or dog—as Dean backed away in horror: the blade had done nothing. He took it out in one motion, not even bothering to look at the knife or hand it back, just dropping it onto the floor, still bloody.

Bobby swung at him—the man blocked the attack, then before Dean even knew what really happened, the man has his hands pressed to Bobby's forehead, and Bobby was on his knees, then falling to the ground.

As though he had just done nothing, the man in the trenchcoat turned back to Dean with the words, "We need to talk, Dean." His bright blue eyes were completely in earnest. "Alone."

Dean ignored him, rushing over to check that Bobby is merely unconscious, and that the blinder of Pamela didn't also just kill Bobby. His pulse was strong, so there was that.

Angrily, he turned toward the man.

"Your friend's alive," the man said, as though he couldn't figure that out for himself.

"Who are you?"

"Castiel."

"Yeah, I figured that much," Dean said, a growl to his voice. "I mean, what are you?"

Castiel finally looked up at him, turning his still earnest face to meet his gaze, honesty in every line. "I'm an Angel of the Lord." Of course, an expression like that can be faked.

Dean stood, slowly, each movement exaggerated as he thought that over and what his response would be. "Get the hell out of here." If anyone could use that phrase, it would be him. "There's no such thing."

The 'angel' turned to face him completely, a slight smile on his face disappearing as he became serious. "This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

Thunder seemed to crash, and light filled the room—Dean flinched from it, but it wasn't as much as Pamela had faced. Around Castiel, black wings stretched out as shadows fletched with shadows. The most he, apparently, could see of an angel.

For a moment, at least, he accepted that angels were real—not God, but angels.

"Some angel you are," he mocked, though his words were true. "You burned out that poor woman's eyes."

Castiel bowed his head, shamed. He shifted toward Dean, and said, "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be…overwhelming to humans. And so can my real voice. You already knew that."

"You mean the gas station, and the motel," Dean confirmed. Castiel nodded. Stunned, unwilling to admit it, Dean asked, "That was you talking?" Cas nodded again, patient. "Buddy, next time lower the volume."

"That was my mistake," Castiel apologized. Thinking of someone else, he added, "Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."

"And what visage are you in now, huh?" Dean asked nastily, suddenly realizing that whatever body Castiel was in now, it wasn't an angel's. "What, holy tax accountant?"

"This? This is a vessel."

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" Divine were no better than demon, it seemed.

He seemed to be insulted by the accusation, so that was something, Dean had to admit. "He's a devout man, he actually prayed for this."

"Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?" Dean asked, trying to back out of the entire conversation. He wanted out—preferably without a trip back into Hell. That would be great.

"I told you."

"Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?" Dean asked. Especially if they knew what he had done there, if they had known the things that he had seen and done to others—what he had been on the path to becoming, in time, under the guidance of Alastair.

Stepping closer, Castiel assured him, "Good things do happen, Dean."

"Not in my experience." Dean growled out the words, knowing they were probably the truest he had ever spoken to anyone.

"What's the matter?" The angel paused, and realization flickered in his bright blue eyes. "You don't think you deserve to be saved?" It was said as a question, but they both knew that it was a statement, both knew that it was the truth.

So Dean asked, "Why'd you do it?" Because he needed to know—why did he deserve the rescue. Surely there were others, who had never gotten off the rack in the first place.

"Because God commanded it," Castiel said. "Because we have work for you."

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural….

* * *

"Dad?" Teddy's voice said from the door of what was Harry's new study. He turned in the old wooden swivel chair, smiling at his son.

"Settled in, pup?" he asked. Teddy, in his pajamas decorated with various American superheroes, padded over to his side in bare feet and launched himself up onto his lap.

"I finished unpacking all of my clothes, and my toys, and my books," he informed him, leaning back against his dad's shoulder and closing his eyes. Harry's hand came up and carded through the, once again, turquoise hair. "And I have the picture of Mom and Papa put up on my desk, and Gramma's too."

"I'll set up the potions lab tomorrow so you can get started on some of your lessons," Harry told him, turning back to the desk with Teddy still in his lap. The kid leaned forward, peering at some of the documents Harry already had strewn over the desk. "And we'll start the garden soon, too."

"What about school?"

"Since I don't have a job again, I guess I'll be teaching you," Harry suggested, trying to get a look at the kid's face. "Is that okay?"

Teddy flashed him a smile. "Of course. Then I get to learn magic too," he pointed out. "So the lab and then the gardens."

"The kitchen first, though," Harry said, picking up a file marked with a few Norse runes and glancing through it carefully. His filing system had changed when Teddy had begun to read—a nosy child was every parent's fear, and his child was the son of a Marauder. "We'll need food, and a car, since we don't have a fireplace. I don't want to Apparate with you everywhere, it's not good for you."

"Okay." Teddy curled up a bit, sighing. "Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah, love?"

"D'you think we could get a dog?" the ten year old asked sleepily. Harry's arms tightened around him.

"Uh, maybe. We'll have to see how we settle in here—I want to be sure that the area is dog-friendly before we get a puppy," he said, putting the file back onto the desk. Teddy was starting to crash like he did nearly every night, and it wouldn't be long at all before he was completely out.

Teddy hmm'd, and Harry smiled as he gathered the tired kid up and stood. He carried him down the hall to his room, tucking him in underneath starred sheets and a quilt which had been a gift from Andromeda, his grandmother. Without opening his eyes, Teddy grabbed unerringly for the stuffed wolf at the edge of the bed and curled around it, murmuring as he drifted off.

"Night, pup," Harry whispered, pressing a kiss to the child's forehead before turning off the light and leaving the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for all the reviews!**

* * *

Sam was glad to have Dean back—he was so very, very glad.

But his brother _frustrated _him so much sometimes. He just couldn't take something on faith, ever—right now he was too busy trying to find someway to kill an _angel_, as though that were possible, as though an angel could die or that they should really want to kill one.

"Don't you think if angels were real, some hunter, somewhere, would have seen one?" Dean asked, grasping at straws after Sam had already disproven all of his other, ridiculous arguments about Castiel being a demon. "Ever?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, smirking a bit, "You just did, Dean."

His brother slumped. "I'm trying to come up with a theory here, work with me."

Sam shook his head and turned away. "Dean, we have a theory."

"One with a little less fairy dust on it, please," Dean demanded, stepping toward him. Bobby didn't even look up, still reading a large book in the corner.

"I'm not saying we know for sure, I-I'm just saying, that I think we—"

"Now, that's the point. We don't know for sure. So I'm not going to believe that this thing is a freaking 'angel of the Lord' because it says so!"

Sam looked to Bobby for help.

"You two chuckleheads wanna keep arguing religion or you wanna come take a look at this?" the older man asked, effectively putting a stop to the fight. Sam, peeved that Bobby didn't just take his side, rolls his eyes before heaving himself from the chair to go to the desk.

"I got stacks o' lore," Bobby informed them, shuffling some of it around. He listed some off, sounding irritated. "It all says an angel can snatch a soul from the pit—but only with a very particular kind of help."

"What kind of help?" Dean asked, leaning forward. His hand hadn't left the handprint Castiel had scarred into his shoulder, Sam noticed. "Maybe that's all that this Castiel is."

"It doesn't say—but it's powerful, if an angel needs to call it in," Bobby admitted, tapping the picture next to the text. "It just says that it needs—permission, seems to be the best interpretation of it, actually. Permission, guidance—from some kind of being."

There was a knock on the door—a completely unexpected, random knock.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, hands going straight to the knives and guns around them, before looking at Bobby. "Expecting someone?"

"No, but this is a working yard," he said, rolling his eyes and standing. "Idjits." He made his way over to the door.

"I didn't hear anyone come up the drive, did you?" Sam asked, leaning closer to Dean. His brother shook his head, slowly pulling a gun from the desk.

"Do people actually _come here?"_ he muttered. Sam snorted in agreement.

They inched closer to listen.

"Hullo, Mr Singer," a very British voice greeted. "I'm Harry Black, and this is my son, Teddy. I'm sorry to bother you, but I've just moved to the area, and I was hoping to purchase a car today?"

"Of course, Mr Black. Come inside for a drink first, won't you?" Bobby asked, shocking the brothers. Politeness, from Bobby? Must only be to new customers at the yard.

Bobby led them into the 'living room'/library, and Black didn't even blink at the mess, just smiled a bit. He did blink, however, when he saw Sam and Dean. "Hullo, I'm sorry, didn't see you there. Harry Black."

"Sam." Sam reached out a hand and shook it, watching for any flicker of recognition. Either the man was a very good actor, or he had no clue who they were.

"Dean," Dean grumbled. There was a flicker of something in Harry's eyes there, but it was gone quickly. He wasn't watching the man—his gaze was on the kid, a slight smile to his expression. "He yours?"

Black beamed as Bobby handed him a glass of what was presumably holy water on the rocks, though he didn't tell him. "This is my son, Teddy," he confirmed, ruffling the kid's hair. It was a wonder that Dean had to ask—both the father and son shared the same messy black hair, almond shaped eyes, and thin scrawny builds. He took a drink of the water, raising it afterward. "Thanks for this. Hits the spot."

"What brought you to Sioux Falls?" Sam asked. He wasn't a demon, but there were still a number of things he could be. Bobby was trying to find paperwork that wasn't covered in demon sigils, an attempt to look legitimate. It was probably a losing game.

"Didn't get along with the old neighbors," Black joked, green eyes sharp. He knew it wasn't a casual question, then. "Needed a bit of a change, and I have some business out this way. Teddy, don't touch that." He wasn't even looking at the kid—must've been some instinctual father thing. Their dad had done it all the time, when he had been around.

The kid was peering at some stacks of things, and had reached out a hand to touch a silver knife. He huffed, and fell back onto his heels, folding his arms and stepping closer to his dad again.

"That's okay," Dean said, eyes narrowed now. "It's dull."

"He has an allergy to silver," Black said, immediately setting them all on edge. "Has since he was a kid. He knows better." He added that last with an admonishing glance at Teddy.

Bobby watched them both, then handed a second glass of holy water to the kid.

He sniffed it first, and sighed, looking up at his father and rolling his eyes before drinking it with a grimace and setting it down. "Tastes funny," he muttered. Sam laughed.

"Where'd you move from?" he asked. He assumed that the problem was with the difference in tap water—a lot of people could taste the difference, him included. He preferred bottled water, himself.

"Most recently? Florida," Black said. He ruffled Teddy's hair—it actually seemed to be more of a warning move mixed with a sign of affection, but Sam wondered if he _was_ just being paranoid. There were such things as normal people. Sometimes. "Weather was nice, but the locals didn't agree with us, did they, pup?"

The kid was trying to flatten his messy black hair out again. He wasn't succeeding, and his father looked as though he'd given up years ago on his own. The man turned to Bobby. "So, Mr Singer, what do you say about looking at cars? I need a cheap one—don't plan on using it much, just figured I'd be better off having one than not."

"I've got loads of those," Bobby admitted. "But I'd suggest coming back another time—me an' these idjits have an errand to run."

Black didn't look surprised. "I'll leave my number with you, and you just let me know when a good time would be, alright?" He smiled, and began leading Teddy out the door. "It was nice to meet you all." Then he was gone.

Sam looked at the others. "Why do I have the feeling that he wasn't as random as he seemed to be?" he asked. Dean shrugged.

"Everyone worth their salt knows that Bobby's the best," he said, swigging a gulp of beer. "Guess he just got a tip when he moved into town."

"Allergy to silver," Bobby pointed out. "Shifter kid?"

"They'd be trying harder," Sam said. "That was way too casual. Unless they're great actors, but there's been nothing in the news recently. It doesn't matter—we've got to go check on that hunter friend of yours, Bobby."

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural….

* * *

"We're going to come in here," Harry whispered, leaning down to speak to Teddy, eyes darting around the hall warily. "And I'm going to lock the door behind us. We'll be protected. We're going to be fine." Teddy nodded, and let his father guide him into the bedroom.

There was a large bed with a blue and white comforter spread over it, pillows resting at the top against the oak headrest. The walls were peeling white wallpaper, the floor simple hardwood. Teddy ran across it, trying to control his pace so that it looked less like a retreat, but threw himself up onto the bed just the same. He dove into the pillows, staring wide-eyed as Harry followed, locking the door and murmuring, _Colloportus_ after him. He summoned great amounts of salt from the kitchen, forming it into a ring around him and Teddy and most of the area around the bed.

Just in time, too.

Colin's ghost was the first to reappear. He was gaunt, and bore almost no resemblance to the body that had held him in life, and didn't speak. Harry sighed, and reached out with the hand that wore the black ring—the Resurrection Stone. He made an odd little twisting motion, and Colin let out a silent scream before turning in on himself and vanishing in white smoke. It would be another twenty minutes or so before he was able to rise again—something had raised the Witnesses, which he hadn't thought possible without his permission. Then again, he supposed, their souls hadn't been returned from across the veil, just shades. Perhaps all that was needed was a variation of the Resurrection Stone.

"Are you alright, pup?" he asked, turning to his son. His brave, brave son, who was sitting with his arms curled about his legs and head resting on his knees, trying so hard not to look frightened. Harry sat next to him on the bed, curling an arm around his shoulders and tugging the boy against him. Teddy rested his head against his dad's chest, not making a sound, but Harry could feel that his breath was faster than it should have been. He summoned a book, quickly. "Shall we read a bit?" he asked, turning to Teddy's favorite Sherlock Holmes story.

Teddy nodded, eyes wide. Fred and Cedric were beginning to pace outside the circle, glaring at them. Harry tried not to wince—Teddy might have a hard time around George after this.

"Castiel," he murmured when Teddy buried his head into Harry's chest. He could feel yet another presence in the house now, and had a feeling that he knew whose it was—he didn't want Teddy meeting his parents like this.

The angel flew in, looking startled. "You were not supposed to be affected by the Witnesses," he stated.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Get rid of them, Castiel. Whatever powers I have over them are only temporary, and I will not have Teddy exposed to this. Help your hunters with this Seal, I don't care what rules you break. I'll go over and do it myself if I have to—just _get them out of my house."_

There was a thud, and the door burst open, revealing a mousy haired, thin, dull eyed Tonks. Without letting Teddy raise his head to look at the new entry, Harry used a spell he hadn't since the child was two and suffering colic: he put him to sleep with a murmured incantation, waving his hand over the child's forehead.

Castiel watched him impassively.

"That will only last for about ten minutes," Harry snapped. "I need this to cease."

Castiel replied, "I am meant to be fighting with my brothers and sisters, Master Black. Not to be aiding the Winchesters in a battle they nearly have won."

"I don't care." Harry's hand stroked the forehead of his son, gentle and careful, unlike the vile sound of his voice. "Finish this."

The ghosts suddenly vanished, _whooshed_ from existence.

"It appears to have been taken care of by the Winchesters. You should have more faith in the hunters, Master of Death. You will be relying on them for much more than mere apparitions in the future," Castiel said, before vanishing himself.

"Bloody angels," Harry said, gingerly standing from the bed, laying the book next to Teddy and banishing the salt.

* * *

**By the way, I just want to know if there's a particular episode you'd want Harry's involvement in. I will take requests on some of them, though I do have chapters written up skipping a few. If, however, there's an episode you favor, just let me know!**


	4. Chapter 4

After the rugaru, Sam could feel a bit of the careful walls he had built crumbling. If that man, subject to his genetics, could resist what he was for so long—until he had made the change to _protect_—and then still had to die, what about him? Sam, who could have chosen not to follow the path that was washed in demon blood, still had—did that make him more of a monster?

Sam rested his head against the window of the Impala, holding in the sigh that would subject him to one of Dean's sharp looks. He was growing tired of them—he really just wanted to get back to Bobby's, take a quick break, have a decent plate of food that at least made an attempt to masquerade as a meal.

Of course, they hadn't expected an unfamiliar car in Bobby's driveway, or a very large, furry black dog barking at them from the porch as they pulled up.

"Man, what the?" Dean asked, parking the car, staring dumbstruck at the mutt. He wasn't a fan of dogs, and Sam expected that it had worsened since the hellhounds.

Bobby came out of the house, handing them the traditional flask of holy water and the silver knife, which they submitted to without questioning. They did, however, look askance at the dog.

"Oh, that's just Dory or something," Bobby said, rolling his eyes. "I think the kid must've loved the movie."

Sam raised his eyebrow. _"Finding Nemo_?" He snorted.

"Kid?" Dean asked. Then he frowned, and turned to Sam. "When did you have time to watch a kid's flick?"

"It was on in a hotel, once." He shrugged.

"That British guy's kid," Bobby said. "It's his dog. Apparently the kid's convinced that there's something in his closet, so his dad got him a dog to make him feel better."

Dean snorted. "Wiser move than most parents."

"Dad gave us guns," Sam pointed out.

"I said most, not all," Dean answered, clearly not getting the sarcasm. He paused. "Do you think we should check it out? Sometimes kids are smarter than the parents."

"I did," Bobby said, glancing over his shoulder at the dog. It was watching them now, wagging its tail, as though convinced that they had brought her something. "There wasn't anything there. Kid was being a kid."

"You did?" Sam asked. He was gaping, incredulous, at the older man. "He knows you're a hunter?"

"Well, no, Sam," Bobby growled. His eyes shunted to the side, glaring at the dog. "But he's bought a car, and I've been fixin' it up. As a thank you, he let me borrow some of his books."

"Wait, you borrowed his books?" Dean asked, snorting.

"Shut up," Bobby said, slapping the back of his head. "So I overheard the kid talking to his dad, checked it out while I was there. Nothing's in the closet, so they got a dog."

"So, why are they here now?" Sam asked.

"We just finished the guy's car about an hour ago, he's making dinner to celebrate. Don't bring up the monsters, ghosts, anything that could freak that kid out more than he is," Bobby warned. "Harry will kill you."

With that, Bobby stomped back to the house, grumbling under his breath and shutting the door a little too hard. Dean and Sam started following, frowning.

"Who is this guy?" Sam muttered. "Bobby doesn't just like anyone. Now he's protective of this guy's kid?"

"Doesn't seem right, does it?" Dean asked, glaring at the dog. It was whining at him. Sam reached down and scratched at it's flopping ears. "I'm going to talk to this guy, you go find out more from Bobby."

…..harrypottersupernatural….

Dean trudged into the house, pulling up short when he saw the kitchen—it wasn't much at all, but there was a large pan on the usually inactive stove, and then a plate of grilled sandwiches piled next to it. The man from a few weeks ago was standing in front of a skillet with a spatula, frowning at the kid.

"Teddy, you can't eat until Bobby's nephews come in," he was saying, but he looked up as he finished his sentence and rolled his eyes.

It seemed that he knew what the kid was going to say—because within seconds, Teddy jumped from his seat and turned to his dad, saying, "Can I eat _now_? I'm _hungry."_

"I know, pup, but hold on," his dad chuckled. He turned to Dean. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Harry Black."

"Dean Winchester," Dean said gruffly, sitting himself down across from the kid. He glared for a moment at the tome in front of Teddy—it seemed old, but he realized that it wasn't, it was just parchment, and he had equated that with 'old' in his mind. "What is that, kid?"

"I'm Teddy," the kid said, frowning. "And this is my textbook, so that I can study—um, chemistry. Dad says that one day I might be as good as his mum, if I keep practicing." He brightened at that, though Black had moved to his side and pressed a hand on his shoulder to silence him within seconds of him beginning to speak.

Dean forced down a smile. He would have more luck than Sammy, it seemed: the kid would be a good source of information, even when the father wasn't.

"Pup," Black was saying, shutting down his plans of interrogation, "remember what we talked about. Go put your homework away, feed Dora, and then tell Bobby dinner's ready. I need to talk with Dean, here."

Teddy rolled his eyes. "Kay, Dad." He closed the book—Dean didn't get a chance to read the title before it was pushed into a small bag he was carrying with him, followed by a notebook and a ballpoint pen. He heard the kid leave, but looked up so that he was meeting the eyes of the father.

They were glaring at him, clear and bright green, and Dean took a moment to snap himself away from thinking about how impossibly green a person's eyes could even be.

"What is it that you want, Dean Winchester?" the man asked him. "From me, from my son. I've seen your type before—you expect to be given just what you've asked for, maybe even more, but no less. And I'm on your territory. So just ask."

Dean blinked, unconvinced. But he didn't see harm in it. "I want to know why you're here. Why you're in Bobby's kitchen, making dinner. Most importantly, I want to know who you are," he added. He watched the man's eyes flicker toward his gun and knife warily.

He was met with an uneasy silence. He took a chance to fully study the man, look at him without a distraction. He was not tall, but perhaps just a little shorter than Dean himself, so neither was he a terribly short man. He was lean, though: muscled, in every place that counted, but so thin that Dean was sure his ribs would have been visible. He wore loose clothing that wouldn't restrict him in a fight, and black so that it didn't stand out: black jeans, a black long sleeve shirt. His only ornamentation was a black ring set in gold on his right hand. It wasn't well taken care of—there were scratches over its surface, and a crack down its center.

He bore a scar, on his forehead. Jagged—shaped, in the way of a lightning bolt or a rune, and Dean was certain that it had been done to him. So this man had enemies, enemies that would want him to suffer. There was a mangled scar on his right hand, a knotted one on his forearm near his elbow—half was covered by the sleeve that he had shoved up while he was stirring the soup. He pulled it down now, seeing where Dean's eyes were.

Dean knew, then. This man—like his own father—was a soldier, or had been.

"Telling you that would create dangers, dangers for my son, for me," Black answered now, weighing each word. "Dangers that are unnecessary, and would result from unnecessary truths."

"I think they're plenty necessary," Dean pointed out, reaching for his weapon.

"No need for that, now," Black chuckled. "Truly, I just came by for the car. We traded books. I offered to make dinner—he doesn't live off of more than microwave meals, takeout, and alcohol."

"So it all just came together." For some unknown reason, Dean's tone was rather skeptical. "And now you and your kid just hang out here."

"While the car was getting fixed, yeah," Black said. He slammed down the plate of sandwiches onto the table, followed by a tower of bowls.

As though summoned back by the clatter of spoons on the table, the kid came skidding back into the kitchen and flung himself down into the chair next to Dean. He grinned and grabbed a bowl, immediately handing it to Dean. "Have some soup, it's the best," he said, taking a second bowl for himself as Bobby and Sam came into the kitchen.

Dean shrugged. He wasn't going to turn down food.

"So, Teddy, where do you go to school?" Sam said after they had been eating in relative silence for a while, only the sounds of chewing and slurping surrounding them.

The kid took a moment to swallow his bite of sandwich, which was more than Dean would have done. "I'm home schooled. Dad teaches me maths and science and history and things. When I'm eleven, though, I'll be going to boarding school."

"Boarding school?" Sam asked, turning to the older Black. "Why?"

"I went there when I was a kid," he answered. He stirred his soup lazily, not eating much more than his initial few bites. "My parents went there, his other grandparents went there. It's a family tradition, that school, and one of the most highly respected in Europe."

Dean grunted. He couldn't help that his thoughts went to immediately how freakin' posh that sounded—whereas he and Sam just went from school to school when they were kids. He froze in a moment, when he was immediately fixed under a green eyed, icy gaze that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

"I'm so excited!" Teddy was exclaiming when Dean turned away from the dad. "I turn eleven in April, so I'll get my letter next summer, and then Dad'll take me shopping for my books and supplies and I'll see my cousins and everyone again. I can't wait, my Uncle Neville is one of my professors, he's promised to show me the passage to—" He froze. He took a bite of sandwich to try to cover his slip, but his distractive tactic failed.

"The passage to where, Teddy?" Black asked, his voice perfectly calm. Sam and Bobby were both hiding smiles, though, and Dean could see why—there was a glare in the man's eyes, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth showed how amused he was.

"Nowhere," the boy said sulkily around the cheese and bread. "I don't know why it matters. You snuck out of school all the time."

"Yes, but if you remember, I had a reason," his father said. "Thankfully, you won't have that reason. If I find out that you were caught sneaking out of the school, you'll hear from me more than you might want to." The boy swallowed, but then brightened.

"So, only if I'm caught?"

Black grinned, bright teeth sharper than they really should have been, Dean thought. He turned from the conversation and to Sam. "He gets it from his dad," he said, sounding a bit odd about it. "So, what are the two of you doing next?"

"Research," Dean grumbled. "Lots of research."

"On what?" Teddy asked eagerly.

The three hunters exchanged a long, long look. Black smiled and ruffled his kid's hair. "Pup, I think it's time we go back home. These two are clearly tired." He stood, leaving an untouched sandwich, stirred but uneaten bowl of soup, and the kid followed. He, unlike his father, had left only the crusts of his grilled cheese laying petulantly on the plate.

"Thanks for dinner, kiddo," Bobby said, nodding to the man. Black grinned back and led his kid out the door.

"What a strange guy," Sam muttered. He turned to Bobby. "You going to tell him about the hunting?"

"He moves like a hunter." Dean broke the words into the conversation almost casually, as though they were nothing. "He was standing by the stove—defensively. Ready to run or fight. Unarmed, from what I could tell."

"His kid seems like a regular kid, though," Sam pointed out. "I'd be surprised if Black was a hunter but his kid was going unprotected."

"He's reading from a book made of that old stuff Bobby's always going on about," Dean said.

"Parchment," Bobby corrected. "Not surprised. Should see the things Harry's got stored up in his house. Priceless, some of them." He shook his head.

"Said he was studying chemistry," Dean growled. Now there was a disconnect, an inconsistency that couldn't be explained. A chemistry book on parchment was a bit of a stretch.

"Now, you see here, Dean," Bobby said, his voice raising as he did from the table. "You leave these two alone. They've done nothing, and unless they do something to warrant us investigating, you'll stop this."

Bobby left the kitchen, and Sam shook his head. "Dean, I'd just go with Bobby on this one. He might know something we don't. Come on, let's get some sleep, and find another case."

Dean, grumbling, dumped his dishes in the sink and went to bed. He couldn't, however, stop wondering about Harry Black—and why he was sure he had met him before.

* * *

**Thanks for all the reviews!**

**I just want to answer a couple of questions I received, and I'm going to do it here so that there's no confusion.**

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**There will be no pairings. Quite a few of you picked up on that and were happy about it, which is a good reason why I'm keeping it that way. The original reason is that romance just isn't my thing, and having a pairing requires ooey gooey moments that aren't just obnoxious flirting.**

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**A second question was in regard to Ginny. Characters from Harry's background will usually be mentioned in passing or will have some sort of connection to the plot, especially the big ones. Like most plot elements, such things will be revealed in their own time.**

**This does not mean I object to speculation—in fact, I encourage it. Speaking of, I love hearing from you guys. Please drop me a review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks again for all the reviews! They make my week!**

"Look, Teddy, stir it counterclockwise here," Harry said, showing him the proper way to create a potion for coughs. Teddy was following along, relying heavily on the book, frowning in concentration. Harry smiled when he knew the child wouldn't see him: Teddy's favorite subjects were going to be potions and Transfiguration, he could tell, and he couldn't be prouder. He himself had only found an appreciation for the former during his sixth year, and wished it had been encouraged more than it had.

It turned a funny looking green color, which showed it was ready for the next step, just when a knock sounded on the door.

"I'll get that, you let it simmer for a moment," Harry said, casting a stasis spell over the cauldron. He refused to risk an explosion while he wasn't in the room and couldn't control the damage. Teddy stepped away, hair turning a pouting sort of navy, and settled into a chair with the fourth Narnia book. Harry shook his head and trotted over to the front door, swinging it open to find Bobby wringing his hat in his hands as he waited.

"Hey, Bobby," Harry said, tilting his head to the side as he greeted him. "Is everything alright?"

"I need to borrow your car," the man grunted, skipping the preliminaries. "It's the only one around that I know for sure has all its working parts, and will run long distance."

Harry frowned. "What for?"

"The boys ran into a spot of trouble in Colorado. My truck broke down," he admitted. "I don't have time to get it fixed up."

"I'm coming with you," Harry said, grabbing his keys, the long overcoat he had grown fond of. It was the closest he could come to a cloak in the muggle world. "One moment." He turned around and trotted into the potions lab, startling Teddy.

"Who's at the door, Dad?"

"Bobby," Harry said. "I'm sending you to your grandmother's for the next couple of days, Teddy, we'll have to finish this some other time." He tapped his wand on the clean stirring rod on the table, muttering, "_Portus._ Tell her that I'll be back for you in no more than three days." Teddy nodded, took the book more firmly into his hand, and hugged his dad.

"Love you," he said, letting go.

"Love you, too," Harry answered, as his son grabbed onto the stirring rod. In a twisting of light and color, he was gone, back to England where his grandmother kept an emergency stash of his things for instances such as this. Harry nodded, turning, summoning the Invisibility Cloak to him with a quick flick of the Elder Wand, and stuffing it into the extended coat pocket. The ring was on his finger as well, as it usually was. He tore out of the lab, locking it and warding it behind him, then strode back to Bobby.

"Where's the kid?" Bobby asked. His words were gruff, but he seemed to actually care.

"Sent him to his grandmother's for the weekend," Harry said, locking the door. They stepped off the porch, trekking carelessly over the mix of gravel, weeds, and grass that made for Harry's driveway these days. "He needs to go see her every now and then, and I can afford the plane tickets." Not untrue, he allowed.

Bobby just grunted.

"So, what exactly is going on?" Harry asked, unlocking his new car and getting in. Bobby pulled himself into the passenger seat with a glare as Harry put the keys into the ignition. "Come on, Bobby, I'm not oblivious. You and the Winchesters are involved in something."

"Drive, kid," Bobby said.

Harry shrugged and turned on the radio. They started driving.

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural…

* * *

Dean started backing away from him, arguing nonsensically with things Sam wasn't saying, wasn't doing. He crashed against the wall, staring wide eyed at Sammy, gaping in terror that Sam would have found funny were it not life threatening.

"Hey, Dean, Dean, Dean," Sam tried, again, again. Dean's expression didn't change for a moment, but finally he seemed to recognize him.

Still gasping, he met his brother's eyes. Sam nodded and stood, moving away. He knew there was nothing else he could do here but call Bobby one more time.

He drove a little ways away to wait for him, ignoring the urge to call Ruby while he had time. He had a crisis on his hands.

It wasn't Bobby's car that came pulling up though—and Bobby wasn't driving, either. After Bobby climbed out of the passenger seat and strode over to Sam, an increasingly familiar figure with black hair followed him, wearing an overcoat that flapped around his calves. He looked tired, and a little irritable. Sam supposed that a few hours in a car with Bobby could do that to a person.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby called.

"Hey, Bobby." He nodded. "Hey, Harry."

Black grinned. "Hullo, Sam." He peered around. "Where's Dean?"

Sam turned back to Bobby. "You didn't tell him what's going on?" He was a bit incredulous—on the one hand, it was hard filling people in on what a hunter's life involved, on the other, it would be hard to hide it now.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Course I did."

"I've known that you're hunters since I moved in," Black said unexpectedly, rolling his eyes. "It's not like it isn't obvious. What're you going after now?"

"Wait," Sam said, shifting to peer at the British man, "you're saying that I spent the entire time Dean and I were talking to you dancing around the truth and you knew the whole time?"

Harry studied his nails for a moment. "Something like that," he said, chuckling.

"Are you a hunter?" Sam asked.

Black shook his head, the shaggy strands of his hair hitting his forehead and drawing attention to the scar on his pale skin. "Not at all. Met one once before." He shrugged. "Wasn't a pleasant experience for either of us."

Sam wanted to ask more about it—why he met a hunter, but mostly whether Black was what was being hunted. He was beginning to suspect that more and more. But instead, Bobby huffed.

"So. Where _is_ Dean?"

Sam chuckled. "Home sick. Ghost sickness is getting worse."

"Ghost sickness?" Black asked, leaning against the Impala. He scratched at the back of his head, a black ring flashing. "What, exactly, is that?"

"The ghost died, and infected someone to die exactly how they did over a forty eight hour timespan, best we can tell," Bobby grumbled.

"This one's scaring Dean to death," Sam said, snorting. "Sorry. It's not funny. Except when it is."

Bobby huffed. "How far has it progressed?"

"His hallucinations started a few hours ago. They were…yeah." Sam jumped up onto the Impala, jolting Black away for a moment, though he moved back to leaning on the car.

"How long does he have?" Black asked.

"We saw the coroner about 8 A.M. Monday morning," Sam said, squinting in the sun. "That's when he must've gotten it. So, uh, just under two hours now."

"That's cutting it a bit short," Black pointed out. Unnecessarily, Sam thought.

"I found an encyclopedia of spirits," Bobby said, glaring at Black a moment. He pulled a small blue book out of his coat pocket, holding it up for Sam to take. "Dates back to the Edo Period."

Sam flipped it open, startled. "You can read Japanese?" he asked, more than a bit skeptical. Black leaned in closer, trying to get a better look. He whistled.

Bobby wheeled off a bit of the language, glaring at Sam. Black laughed, snapping back a couple of syllables that could have been words. Bobby looked startled, but grinned himself.

"Guess so," Sam said, ignoring whatever else was happening here. "Show-off."

"Anyway, this book lists a kind of ghost that could be our guy. It, uh, infects people with fear. It's called a Buruburu."

"It say how to kill it?" Sam asked, giving up on trying to decode Japanese by sheer force of will.

"Same as usual. Burn the remains," Bobby pointed out. Black stole the book from Sam and started paging through it, looking for all the world as though he were actually skimming it.

Sam shifted on the car, gritting his teeth. "Wonderful. Is there a plan "B"?" he asked. He wasn't kidding—the dragged corpse of their victim/ghost was a complete wreck along the highway.

"Well, the Buruburu is born of fear. Hell, it _is _fear. The lore says we can kill it with fear."

Black stood up, interrupting them, and stretched leisurely for a moment, getting up onto his tiptoes and reaching his fingertips for the sky. Sam raised his eyebrows. Black, settling back down onto his feet, grinned. "I have a better plan. Much less dangerous, much more easy, I can assure you. Just point me to the ghost, and I can get rid of it for you."

Both hunters turned and gaped at him, staring at this slight, black haired man who had only recently walked into Bobby's salvage yard. "What do you mean, Black?" Sam asked, eyes narrowed.

"I mean that sometimes, you should have a little faith." He shrugged. "What is the name of this ghost, where will I find it?"

"Luther Garland," Sam said finally. "The lumber mill in town."

"Gotcha." Black turned as though to go back to his car, then hesitated. "I'll meet you back in South Dakota. Bobby, go ahead and take my car back, will you?"

"Har—" Bobby started, but within a few seconds, Black had turned on the spot and disappeared with a loud _crack_ splitting through the air.

"Holy shit," Sam swore, staring at where the man had been standing. "What is he? A demon—witch? Did he make some kind of deal?"

"He was fine with holy water," Bobby reassured him, wiping a hand over his face, hiding his eyes briefly and looking a bit pissed. "You can never say for sure about the deal, though. Call Dean. Tell him what's going on."

"Uh." Sam rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, dialing quickly.

"Sam?"

"Bobby and…Well, Bobby showed up with a way to get rid of the ghost. You should be fine in no time," Sam said, deciding to leave Black out of it until they were sure that Dean would be fine. He would be freaking out even more if he knew that there was some unknown power running around out there—they didn't need that, not after everything else.

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural…

* * *

Dean growled, shifting in the car. He was holding a cold can of beer to his forearm, where the scratch marks were livid against his skin. "You're telling me that British guy from the yard a few weeks ago just showed up here and zapped the ghost in some way that he didn't bother telling you about."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." Sam was making a face, Dean could tell, even if he wasn't looking at him. "He just came with Bobby, told us he would take care of it, and disappeared."

"I knew there was something up with him," Dean pointed out, for about the twentieth time. He didn't care. He was right, and Sam had told him so many times to drop it. Ha, look who was right now. "Witch?"

"Probably," Sam said. He didn't sound happy about it. "Maybe he's against the apocalypse though."

"There's no such thing as Glinda the Good Witch, Sammy." Dean rolled his eyes and swigged the beer, careless of the cheap taste. He'd had worse. "If he has some kind of deal, we waste him. Simple as that."

"What about the kid?" Sam looked uncomfortable—Dean supposed he wasn't sitting well with the idea of orphaning a ten year old either. "Let's just talk to the guy, first," Sam tried. "That's all I'm saying."

**I'm going back to college this weekend, and I'm going to do my very best to stick to the 'Tuesday' thing.**

**I'm going to give you a guessing game for the next update. Who do you think this guest appearance might be?**

**Thanks for reading this story, by the way! I love you guys—you're fabulous! :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**I just want to take a second and thank everyone who is following or has favorited or reviewed this story-it's almost insane. 777 followers as of this morning, and I'm just in awe of all of you. You've really kind of made my summer. You guys are the best.**

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His tea had only just finished brewing when the Winchesters arrived, announcing their presence by pounding on his door. Harry closed his eyes and sighed, but didn't answer immediately; instead, he chose to take out a cup and fill it to the brim with his favorite tea, sniffing deeply at the life-giving substance that would keep him calm through this no-doubt harrowing encounter he was about to endure.

Carrying the scalding cup of tea, he strode over to the front door and swung it open, ducking a bit to avoid getting hit in the face by a swinging Winchester fist.

"Oi! Is that really how you lot knock on a door? Bloody Yanks," Harry muttered, eyeing the shorter of the two brothers.

"You owe us an explanation," Dean growled, muscling his way past Harry and knocking around his tea. The motion caused a bit of overflow onto Harry's shirt and chest, where the shirt he was wearing did basically nothing to protect his skin.

"Winchester, watch what you're doing," Harry hissed, swiping at his forearm and glaring at the armed man. He set the tea down, realizing that he probably wouldn't get to it for a time; he had to deal with the crazy American who currently had a gun leveled at his chest. He sighed.

Harry walked over and threw himself into one of his favorite armchairs next to the fireplace, the kind that Slughorn used to favor (the older he got, the more he understood the partiality toward overstuffed furniture), staring at the two plaid-clad men. Scooting to the edge of the cushion, he rested his hands palm up on his knees, a clearly unthreatening gesture, but one that did nothing to reassure the brothers.

He supposed it really shouldn't.

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…..harrypottersupernatural…

* * *

Dean stared at this man, if he truly was that. He seemed so unassuming: small, relaxed in his chair, a wet stain on his long sleeved shirt. (Perhaps he should feel sorry for that, but he had other things on his mind.) But Black was watching them both with wary green eyes, his face level but his gaze turned upward in a way that was more threatening than even a scowl could be.

"What could I possibly owe you?" Black asked after a moment passed, his voice casual. He folded his hands together in front of his knees, smiling politely. "After all, I came to your assistance—saved your life, if I'm not wrong. And this is the kind of treatment I get? A gun in my face, not a word of gratitude?" He _tsked._ "Sam, Sam. I expected at least better behavior from _you._"

Sam finally spoke up then. "What are you? You're not human—no one can do what you did. Demons, some of it. Angels, maybe—Dean's seen one. Maybe a few demi-gods?"

Black snorted. "I feel like I should feel flattered, but then again…. I know a demi-god, see. He's not the type I'd want to be compared to. Bit off his rocker." He tilted his head in thought, then laughed to himself. "I wonder what he'd say if he knew about this little chat of ours."

Dean just glared at him. "But what are you?"

"Well, that's a question that could be answered many different ways. My aunt always said I was a 'freak', the newspapers called me a hero. I guess the answer you're really looking for is wizard."

"What, like a witch?" Sam asked, eyes narrowed.

The 'wizard' chuckled again. "Not quite—"

The fire flared green before he could finish whatever he had been about to say, and a boy about his son's age stumbled out. He was sporting a riotous color of blue hair, bright and insane. His face was rounded, and he was already babbling a stream of words before he was clear of the flames. "Gramma-took-me-to-Uncle-George's-and-he-gave—"

Dean—presented with a supernatural entity traveling through fires and already tense—reacted without thinking about it, shooting before he saw what it was, before he realized it was a kid or realized that it must've been Black's son despite the lack of resemblance. The shot was loud, and close, and no one should have had time to react.

Black jumped up, and dove—he was in front of and around the child before Dean could blink, and a great black ring shot out around him, enveloping him and his son in a large bubble of black oil-like material. It absorbed the bullet, then disappeared. The man/thing/demi-god(?) slowly pulled himself away from his son, and brushed the boy's now colorless hair away from his equally colorless face with trembling fingers.

Dean took a deep breath, steadying himself, and had to stop himself from breaking and running out of the house. Sam looked at him, eyes wide and face ashen—he lowered his gun, gesturing for Dean to do the same. It was very clear that not only were they up against something that was far beyond them, but that they had gone too far.

"Hey, now, shhh," Black whispered. Dean could hear him still—he could hear Sam's fast breaths, the boy's quick, almost sobs, and his very own heartbeat. "You're all right. Remember what I told you?"

"I don't have to worry," the boy whispered, raising amber eyes—the only thing about the kid that retained any color at all—to meet his father's.

"And why's that?" Black asked him, his voice sounding a bit hoarse.

A bit of brown was working it's way back into the kid's hair, roots first. "Because you're always gonna make sure that I'm okay."

"Right, that's right," Black said, pressing his forehead to his son's with a quick sigh of relief. The words seemed to be as much a ritual of reassurance for himself as they were for the child. After a moment, though, Black seemed to remember that reassuring his son wasn't his only problem—and Dean remembered that he was, in fact, the other.

Shit.

Slowly—so slowly—the man turned and rose to face him. The whole time, he kept the boy behind him, shielded. Black was shorter than him, but Dean felt that the man should be towering over even Sam at that moment.

"Do that again, Winchester," Black growled, his eyes flashing, "and you'll find yourself right back in the pit." He raised his chin, his jaw tightening—he looked as though he were planning on killing Dean himself, in that moment. Dean wouldn't blame him, really. "I helped pull you out—I'd be glad to be the one to throw you back in."

He didn't give Dean a chance to think about what he had said.

"I allowed the weapons." As Black said each word, he flicked a stick—when had that appeared in his hand?—and their guns and knives disappeared. "I allowed the rudeness. You're Americans. It was bound to happen. But when you shoot at my _son."_ He stopped, took a deep breath, raising a shaking hand to his nose. "Dean Winchester. You foolish, _blinded_ man."

"Explain it to us," Sam implored, proving once and likely for all that he may very well be braver than Dean, who was still trying to understand what Black had said regarding Hell. Castiel had been the one to pull him out—right?

Black faced him then, turning in a way that kept his son behind him and still away from Dean. "You owe me your life twice over, Dean," Black said. His voice was whisper quiet, but threatening enough that Dean clutched at the empty air where his gun should have been in his hand. There was no reassurance there.

Dean saw the kid tighten his hold on his father's jeans, burying his face in his father's leg—Black rested a gentle, protective hand in the child's darkening hair before continuing. As soon as the kid felt his father's palm on his head, the rest of his hair turned pitch black to match.

"I saved you from your illness by sending a spirit to rest," Black said, glancing at Sam as well. The taller Winchester had the grace to look ashamed, but Dean gritted his teeth. He preferred being beholden to no one. "And I returned your soul to the living world, put it in the body the angels made for you. While the angels can retrieve a soul from hell, there are only two powers that can return them to the land of the living. One is the horseman of death, and the other is me."

The fire flared again before they could react—the green flames roaring, startling, and Dean again wanted to react, but he had nothing with which to react this time. An older woman in a long, dark cloak and dress came striding out from the flames, smiling graciously until she spotted the tense scene, the protective stance Black had taken in front of his son, the way his stick of wood was trained on them threateningly.

Without a word, she drew out her own, her heavily lidded eyes narrowing and flickering between the two Winchesters in a calculating manner.

"Harry?" she asked. For all her tone of voice was, she could have been asking after his health instead of the Americans he was threatening with mystical powers. Hell, Dean thought. Perhaps she was.

"Andy," he greeted, startling the brothers. There was warmth in his voice for that one name, then it was gone again. "Meet Dean and Sam Winchester. Dean, Sam—Andromeda Black."

She raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical and even a bit more relaxed, but didn't lower her—well, was it a weapon?—stick thing. "Bobby's boys?"

They all turned and stared at her on that one, even the little kid.

* * *

**So the full scene is delayed another week, since it's taking Bobby longer to arrive on the scene than I thought it would. Wonder what happened to him on the road? But to keep the lengths of the chapters somewhat consistent-though this one is a bit shorter-because a lot of things happened in this scene, I'm just ending it here…oh, the suspense! Muahahaha…but you don't think I'm ****_too_**** evil, do you? (insert winning smile here)**


	7. Chapter 7

**From here on out, updates will be on Saturdays instead of Tuesdays, something for which I apologize most deeply for not telling you beforehand. The week caught up with me. (So much homework. Sheesh. But I love my classes…so I shouldn't complain….)**

**So sorry for the late update, guys. In return, it is a tad longer. Lemme know what you think!**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

"Bobby's boys?" Andromeda asked, not taking her eyes off of the Winchesters.

Harry turned to stare at her. He couldn't help it—the only thing that mattered more to him at the moment was getting a chance to hex Dean Winchester's balls off and he knew he wouldn't be able to do that for at least a little while.

"Andy, what do you mean by that?" he said, the words coming out a bit more hoarsely than he'd intended. He cleared his throat. "How do you know—Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this. But how do you know Bobby?"

Right on cue, another pounding began on the door, and Harry rolled his eyes. "You lot know that I own a doorbell, right?" he asked. He flicked his wand instead of moving to open the door himself, preferring instead to keep his eye on Dean and his son as close to himself as possible. Teddy was still shaking, even if he was doing a remarkable job hiding it from the Winchesters.

Bobby stepped inside, immediately fixing his glare on the brothers. "I told you to wait for me," he growled. "The kid's not some demon."

"You know what he is," Dean accused.

"Dean," Sam warned, but he was watching Bobby with wary eyes as well.

"Andromeda?" Bobby asked, finally catching sight of the extra addition to their party. "What are you doing here?"

She scowled. "I came to drop off my grandson and found my son holding the Winchesters at wand-point."

"Your son?" Bobby asked, skipping over the rest of the details. "I thought—well, I was under the impression that he was Harry Potter, actually."

"Someone explain what is going on here!" Dean demanded, whirling around to include them all in the glare.

Harry scooped Teddy up into his arms, sheathing his wand. Andromeda had everything under control at this point, as much as it could be, and it seemed as though this would all be solved as soon as they all sat down, had a long discussion, and finished everything off with a nicely aimed curse applied somewhere to Dean Winchester's anatomy.

* * *

…..harrypottersupernatural…

* * *

Sam nudged Dean when he wouldn't stop glaring at Bobby and the woman named Andromeda—the two of them were sitting comfortably in Black's overstuffed armchairs. The lady, for she was obviously that, was sitting almost stiffly and her eyes would flicker occasionally between the three of them warily. They only softened when they landed on Bobby, though Sam wasn't sure why. He wondered if she had been one of Bobby's former…um…liaisons. He rather hoped not—Black did _not_ need another reason to hate them.

"How do you two know each other?" Dean growled. He looked furious. His hands were clenched in his jeans, and his jaw was working in that way that Sam knew meant he wanted to punch someone.

"I'd like to know the same thing," Black said, reappearing in the kitchen doorway with two cups of tea. His son was dogging at his heels, his hand wrapped in the man's shirt. Black just maneuvered around him, and after he handed off the first cup of tea to his mother and set the second one down on an end table, gathered the child up into his lap before handing it to the boy. "Andy?" he asked. His green eyes focused on her face with a quiet intensity.

"I'd like my questions answered," Bobby grumbled.

Andromeda didn't even blink at the man. She just focused on Black. "I know Bobby because his wife was once named Karen Tonks; Ted's American cousin, and pen friend."

Black's face paled, and his arms curled more tightly around his son. "Oh, Merlin, Andy, I'm so sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean—"

"I know perfectly well that you didn't mean anything, Harry, and it needed to be said." She touched the corner of her eye delicately, as though to stop a tear in an action that had long since become habit. She turned to Bobby. "How many years now, my friend?"

To Dean and Sam's surprise, he actually responded. "Far too many. I miss her terribly." But he shook his head. "How is your family?" he asked, trying a smile. "It has been a long time, Andy. I lost track of you with the war."

Black made a slashing motion with his right hand, startling his son and Bobby both. He hissed.

"I don't mind, Harry," Andromeda murmured. "Old friends are permitted to ask the hard questions." She turned back to Bobby. "I lost both my daughter, Dora, and my dear Ted in the war, ten years past. Dora's son and Harry are all that are left to me now." She touched the corner of her eye again.

Bobby leaned forward and patted her hand awkwardly. "I'm sorry for you, Andy," he muttered. She nodded, accepting the condolences.

"Now, let us answer your own questions," Andromeda said after a moment. "You said you have them."

"I was under the impression that Harry is—well, that you are Harry Potter," he said, turning to Black as he changed his sentence.

Black stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded. "I am. I prefer to use my godfather's last name; Andy's last name. She took me in for the first few years that I was raising Teddy."

"What does it matter if he's Harry Potter or Harry Black?" Sam asked, eyes flickering between the three of them.

Teddy turned around to face the tallest Winchester, fixing him with a wide eyed, amber stare. "Don't you know who Harry Potter is?" He said the name as though it was a foreign entity, something other. It was an idea instead of a person to the ten year old, as though Harry Black was more real to him. More likely, the idea of 'dad' was more real to him than either of those names, Sam thought with a bit of dark humor, thinking of his own father.

Andromeda chuckled, sipping her tea and remaining otherwise silent.

"Why don't you tell us?" Dean sounded rather put out with the whole situation.

"Don't you dare speak to my son," Harry threatened. He sounded _furious. _He had a right to, Sam knew, but the only other person he had ever seen become that mad was, well, Dean himself when something was threatening Sam.

It didn't matter. Teddy had already begun to speak.

"Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort many times over, once when he was a baby and then again many times during his school years and then won the war in England, all while running from the ministry," he said, all in one breath. It didn't make much sense at all.

"I'll explain it, later," Bobby growled. "I've got all the newspaper articles still—I never canceled the subscription from when Karen worked for the Muggle Liaison in Sioux Falls."

"And what exactly is a Muggle?" Sam asked. "Is that what they are?"

To his surprise, both Andromeda and Harry started laughing. Andy shook her head. "The exact opposite, actually. You, Sam, are a muggle. Dean is a muggle. Harry and I are both magical. He is a wizard, I am a witch. It is that simple."

Dean turned to Harry. "You said that you raised me from Hell. Explain that."

"I did." The man blinked and sipped his tea. Finally, he added, "the angel who broke your soul free only had permission to do that. Break your soul from hell, but not return it to the land of the living. To bring it to the land of the living, you need a being with the powers of death at his beck and call. That would be what you would call the horseman of Death—he has many other names—or myself. No other options."

"Why you?" Sam asked, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder to stop him from jumping the man. He had seen how well that'd worked last time, he should be more cautious.

"It had something to do with the war we were talking about earlier. I became a lot more powerful than many others of my kind." He lowered his head, resting his chin in his son's hair and sighed. "The hand that fate dealt me." Sam almost didn't catch the words, and didn't think he was meant to.

"Why are you here?" Dean asked. "If all you were needed for was the raising, then why are you still here?"

"I'm here to make sure that your sorry arses stay up top," Harry growled.

"Language," Andromeda said simply. Her gaze and the line of her mouth were sharper than the word itself, but her son looked properly abashed as he continued.

"If you die, I'm not sure what happens. I'd kind of like to find out, personally, but my job is to make sure that you stay alive. Even if you die, I need to make sure that you stay alive." He shook his head. "I'm going to have a rough go of it, I'm sure."

"How? How is this possible?" Sam asked. "I've never heard any lore about this. Not even anything about any kinds of witches who didn't deal with demons, and Bobby was adamant that you weren't that kind of witch."

Bobby nodded along as Sam spoke. "They're not. They're what we'd want to call wand-witches, I suppose—they get their power from in themselves, and they channel it out through an object of some sort. A focus, I think is the right word."

"You've summarized it better than most magical theorists," Harry said with a wry smile. "We're less populous here in America than we are throughout most of the Europe and Asia; not many of us wanted to come over during the colonial times, and most of the ones who did stayed in the south with the plantations. Big, pureblood families—I think the Malfoys have a relation down in Georgia, maybe the Greengrasses. Andy would know better than I if that ever became relevant." The names meant nothing to Sam, and Harry moved past them quickly enough. "They rarely sent their children to the Salem Academy, which was more like a public school—for the muggleborn children who wanted learning in the magical arts. They didn't mandate that all children attend the Academy until about the later half of the twentieth century."

Harry shook his head. "But none of this is relevant. What is, however, is the fact that you need me—you need me to help you fight back this apocalypse and stop the seals from being broken. Lillith will eat you alive, perhaps even literally, if you don't have me there to help you."

"We have an angel helping us already," Dean said. "We don't need a witch-death-demon thing."

Sam and Bobby turned to look at him with astonishment, Sam a little less surprised that as soon as an alternate, almost more improbable offer of assistance showed up, he'd start accepting the previous offer. Sam took a pillow from the couch and threw it at his brother's head. He had a feeling that Harry wouldn't mind, would probably offer him a brick or something instead of the softer object in replacement. Dean tried to duck, but Sam had calculated his throw for that: the pillow landed right on his face. Teddy let out a laugh that had all of the adults in the room smiling broadly.

"We'd really appreciate any sort of help you can give us, Harry," Sam told him. "Don't listen to Dean. Just a few weeks ago, he was ranting about how angels couldn't possibly exist."

Harry nodded. "Understandable. They don't really fit one's typical image of an angel, do they?" He shook his head.

Dean snorted. "You've got that right." Harry flickered his eyes past the other man dismissively, but Dean continued speaking. "Fine. If you're going to help us, there are going to be rules to this. The kid's not coming on any hunts with us. He can stay with his grandma or whatever, or with Bobby if you want."

"I'd prefer that," Harry said. His voice was low. "Anything else?"

"You give us full disclosure on whatever it is that you can do, and if you ever know anything about what's going on, you let us know immediately. None of this 'need to know' shit that you were giving us before. Got it?" Dean asked, eyes narrowed. Harry nodded, slowly, carefully. His eyes were now permanently fixed on Dean's face, not giving way. Sam's brother was becoming unnerved, but doing his best not to show it. He wasn't doing very well: his gaze would occasionally slip and look to Sam for assistance, which wouldn't be coming. "Finally, if something happens and it ever comes down between me and Sammy, you gotta get Sam outta there first."

"That will be my pleasure." Harry slid his son from his lap and stood in one fluid movement. "Now, for my condition. I need from you, Dean Winchester, an Unbreakable Vow."

"A what?"

"An Unbreakable Vow. Typically made between two magical people, it contracts their magical cores into enacting the core or facing the consequences." A particularly ugly sneer crossed Black's face, one which Sam thought was learned instead of natural, but looked all the more threatening for it. "Being who and what I am, I discovered a way to bind the soul instead, and thus bind muggles."

"Sounds like a demon deal," Dean said cautiously.

"It is not, considering that I am no demon," Harry said. A touch of amusement had entered his voice. "And your soul would not be dragged to hell by hellhounds pending the breaking of the Vow. Your soul would, indeed, remain untouched so long as the Vow remained fulfilled. Also, should you want the assistance you so desperately need, you will be required to make it."

"Do it, man," Sam said.

"I'll be your bonder," Andromeda said, standing and taking her wand in hand once again. "Harry, love, remind me of your new method."

As the two spoke, Sam turned to Dean. "We need him, Dean. And you owe it to him—he needs something from you for what you almost did to Teddy. I'm surprised he's not taking you out to the yard and removing a limb or two."

"They're honorable, Dean. They won't ask anything of you that you can't do," Bobby added. "I know Andy, have for a long time. She won't have changed that much since we've last spoken, war or no war."

Dean huffed. "Give a guy a chance. I was going to say yes, Sammy. I know I owe him." He turned away from both of them. "What do I have to do?"

Harry moved to the center of the living room floor and knelt, holding out his hand. Dean moved to stand in front of him, and, at Harry's nod, knelt to mirror him and took his forearm in his.

"Will you swear to protect my son whenever it is within your ability to do so?" Harry asked.

A look of surprise crossed Dean's face, but he answered. "I will." From Andromeda's wand swooped a band of red-gold fire, which twisted and twined around their arms and hands, holding them together.

Sam felt a swoop of relief—revenge for the deed it may be, but it was also a protection. And clearly it would be an effective one.

"Will you swear to never to cause harm to my son again?"

"I will."

A second band, this one of white-gold with a tinge of soft blue, joined the first.

"Will you swear to do all in your power to prevent the rising of Lucifer and the apocalypse that would follow?"

Dean swept his eyes over Harry's face sharply, and Sam knew exactly what he was thinking because he was thinking it too. Why wouldn't they? What could Harry possibly know that would make him doubt their wish to prevent the rising of Lucifer, let alone the apocalypse?

"I will."

The third band of fire was pitch black before they all went out and Dean was bound by his soul once again.


	8. Chapter 8 Part I

**So what's happening is that I've had a supremely rough week—don't get me started, so much freaking life drama—and you're getting half an update today, half an update tomorrow.**

**Full chapter, but in two days…sorry that I've been inconsistent these past couple of weeks, but I've had a really tough time of it recently. I won't go into detail, but I just haven't had a comfortable place to write until this weekend.**

**On a positive note, you guys did make my week. I mean, OH MY GOD. Over 1000 followers? I freaking LOVE you all!**

**So, happy reading! Same place tomorrow :P**

"He's coming with us on the next hunt."

Sam's voice, Dean thought, sounded a lot like their father's when he was determined. It was strange, and jarring, because it made him want to listen to it even when he wanted to jerk back and deny the request with every part of himself.

"No way," Dean said, shaking his head and gesturing with his beer form Bobby's couch. "It's edging up on the end of October, man. Don't their kind just feed off of that kind of juice?"

He wasn't expecting the whack on the back of his head from Bobby. "You're taking him, boy. You don't have a choice. You agreed to whatever kind of bond he demanded, and you don't know what could trigger it. Find out if he even wants to come on the next one."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Fine. I really don't like this guy, Sammy. I'd rather work with the angel dude than this black magic crap."

"Yeah, well, it's what we've got to work with. You work with the angel, I'll work with the black magic guy." Sam shifted in his seat, flipping open his cell phone. "Hey, do you want anything for dinner, guys? I was thinking about grabbing a pizza and bringing it back here before we had to take off again."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said carelessly. His eyes were anything but, watching Sam carefully as the taller Winchester stood and brushed off his jeans. "Grab me a pie while you're out," he added mechanically. Sam waved a hand in acknowledgement, the door shutting behind him with a wooden bang.

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…..harrypottersupernatural…

* * *

Harry had just gotten Teddy settled in and (hopefully) asleep and had sat down for a nice cuppa in his study when a calm, deep voice spoke practically in his ear. "Master Black."

"Merlin!" Harry yelped, jolting the cup just enough to upset it over to new parchment. Thankfully it was over things that he could not care less about at the moment; he'd deal with their stains later, and with magic, thanks to Hermione's nifty little spells. "Castiel, what in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"It's precisely in Heaven's name that I am here, Master Black. One of the Seals is in the process of being unbound, and the Winchesters have gotten themselves involved. I have been informed that the Winchesters are now aware of your involvement. You have been offered an invitation to the proceedings." Castiel fixed him with a baleful blue eyed stare, intense for all that it lacked in emotion other than devotion to Heaven's army.

Harry sighed. "Assign an angel to watch over my son."

Castiel nodded. "It is done." A small, unimposing girl stood in the corner. She didn't look like she could bat away a fly, but then she fixed Harry with a dark eyed stare. She did not speak. "This is Chaenil. She will guard him with all of her being. Nothing shall reach him. Let us go."

"All of her being is not much," Harry responde

d. His words were just a statement, nothing accusatory, but he was a parent. He wasn't going to allow a girl to guard his son.

"Another of her rank stands guard at the Garden of Eden. Your son should be honored that he is so protected by the army of Heaven. Let us leave."

Harry looked at her again, and she met his gaze. Slowly, as if it pained her to do so, she bowed her head before him and then raised it again to meet his eyes. There was respect there, but also a great deal of defiance. He nodded. "You'll do. See to it that nothing happens to my son. Tell him where I've gone. Keep him safe and tell him to call Bobby Singer."

"Yes, Master of Death." Her voice sounded like the crackle of wood breaking in a fire, and Castiel seemed surprised that she answered him at all, but it was enough that Harry felt comfortable leaving her with his son. Castiel tapped his forehead, and he appeared in the middle of a decrepit hotel room.

Where someone was already waiting.

"Who're you?" he asked, stumbling over to the bed. Looked like it was a Winchester's room, he noted, seeing a bunch of occult and hunting paraphernalia dotted about the room.

"Uriel," the man sneered. "_Such_ a pleasure, Master Black. We've been hearing such…magnificent things about you."

"I'm sure," Harry answered, studying him. He looked intimidating, but that could just be the large sneer being leveled at him right now. That would scare most people. "I am pretty magnificent." Cas appeared moments later. "Aren't I, Cas?"

"I fail to see what you are speaking of, Master Black," Castiel said, turning away from him as he spoke. "Uriel, Dean Winchester is on his way with his brother. I trust that you have removed the hex bag?"

"I am no amateur." Uriel handed Castiel the bag, though Harry stole it and pulled it apart with a snort.

"Any one with a wand could have done this with a thousand times more elegance," he muttered.

The doorknob turned, and Uriel and Castiel seemed to position themselves. Harry just raised an eyebrow. He hadn't been told anything of what was happening—which brought back some painful memories—and was about to sit through a painful conversation which would involve some backward witchcraft during which he would probably be accused trying to kill someone.

At the end of it all, he would no doubt end up saving all of their asses.

Again.


	9. Chapter 8 Part II

**Thanks ever so much for all of your reviews; I dearly love you guys!**

Sam hated Halloween.

He felt justified. There were real monsters out in the world, after all, and here people were, dressing up as if they were just there, taunting the very things that lived and breathed to eat them alive.

He opened the door to their motel room, only to immediately see the back of an unfamiliar man wearing a trenchcoat immediately within his line of sight.

"Who are you?" he yelled, raising his gun.

"Sam, wait!" Harry yelled, standing and raising a hand. "Merlin, I'd thought you were better than your brother, but apparently not by much."

Sam lowered his weaponed, chagrined. Dean was glaring between Harry and the other man. "Castiel."

"Dean," the man—angel—acknowledged. There didn't seem to much emotion in his voice, just a deep baritone. Sam's eyes widened and he couldn't help the look of awe that stole over his face, but both Dean and Harry ignored him. Castiel did too, at that.

Dean turned to look at the other man, standing in the window. "You, I don't know. Why don't you start identifying before I start shooting?"

"Apparently Winchesters do learn their lessons," Harry muttered. "I just met him myself." He held up the remains of a hex bag. "Weren't for him, you'd be witch-food, though, so I suppose that's something."

"Points for him, then," Dean grumbled. "Still doesn't tell us much at all."

"He's here to help us stop the raising of Samhain," Castiel said. "As is Master Black."

"Have you stopped it?" The other angel said, his voice much deeper, much more clipped.

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice much more urgent. "Have you located the witch?"

"Yes, we've located the witch." Dean answered with a tolerance not many received these days, but there was something in his words that alerted Harry. He stood and flitted quickly to Cas's side, standing at his shoulder and staring at Dean with piercing eyes.

"And is the witch dead?"

"No, but—" Sam tried.

"We know who it is," Dean finished, sounding more sure. He was harsher than Sam could have been, speaking to an angel, much more so.

"Well, the hex bag would imply that the witch knows you're hunters. She wouldn't have gone to this trouble for FBI agents," Harry pointed out. "I'd get cracking."

"Easy for you to say."

"It is, really. I just form words," Harry said, tapping his fingers on his wand thing. He glanced between the angels. "Look. I'm here because Samhain is one of the Seals—you swore to stop the Apocalypse, or you'd die. I swore to keep you topside. Therefore, whenever you get wrapped up in keeping one of the Seals, well, sealed, so do I. Savvy?"

"So this is about Lucifer," Sam said softly. "You don't care about Samhain, or the people dying because of the witch—you care about Lucifer."

"Lucifer cannot rise," Castiel said. "Our focus must remain where it is. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs."

"Okay. Great. Well, now that you're here, why don't you tell us where the witch is? We'll gank her, and everybody goes home," Dean said. So simple.

Sam could tell that Castiel wasn't going to allow him to think that simply; he thought even Dean could tell that it wasn't going to be so simple. He wondered, perhaps, if Castiel even had feelings. Shouldn't angels have feelings?

"We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful. She's cloaked even to our methods."

"Okay, well, we already know who she is. So, if we work together—"

"Enough of this." Uriel had begun to speak, interrupting Sam, interrupting probably the thoughts of anyone in the room. His voice was deep, and powerful enough to call to attention anyone even when speaking at such a low volume.

"Who are you and why should we care?" Dean yelled. Apparently not everyone.

"This is Uriel. He's what you might call…a specialist," Castiel said. He sounded afraid of him, himself.

Harry tilted his head to one side, staring at him. "Death has his hand on you, Uriel. I feel him. He is repelled by you, and yet he must send his reapers to follow you wherever you walk." He shivered. "Why, I must ask?"

Sam stared at Black in horror, his eyes slowly drifting to the suited angel, standing with his hands clasped. He drew himself up as he prepared to answer, staring the small man down.

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked, his voice hoarse.

"You—both of you, you need to leave this town immediately," Castiel answered, turning from the other angel. Harry was staring at him in horror. Why was he there? Sam wondered. If they were leaving, why was Harry necessary?

"Why?"

"Because we're about to destroy it."

Harry scrambled away from Castiel, raising his wand and his left hand with the ring around his finger toward the other angel. Both looked to be defensive reactions, and he was hissing, his face contorted. Dean spoke when it seemed that he was too furious to form real words.

"You're just going to smite the whole frigging town?" he asked, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was a sign of how furious Black was with the angels that he ignored Dean instead of kicking him in tender areas.

"We're out of time."

"I refuse to believe that Death agreed to this," Harry hissed. "I _refuse."_

"He did not." Uriel's voice sounded more displeased with that statement than he did with the fact that he was going to kill a thousand people that evening. "He refused. That is why you have seen no reapers in the area."

Harry paused. "That's why you needed me. It wasn't because of these two—it was because you wanted me to take care of the souls. You_ bastards."_

Castiel flinched, Sam noticed, but Uriel showed nothing.

"This witch has to die. The seal must be saved."

"There are a thousand people here," Sam pointed out, his voice soft.

"One thousand, two hundred, fourteen," Uriel rattled off.

"And you're willing to kill them all?" Sam asked.

"And have me shuffle them along to the afterlife with nothing more than a pat on the back," Harry added.

Uriel shook his head. "This is the first time I've…purified a city."

"Look, I understand this is regrettable." Castiel turned to Dean.

"Regrettable?"

"We have to hold the line," he emphasized. Harry snorted. "Too many seals have been broken already."

"So you screwed the pooch on some seals and now this town has to pay the price?"

"It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion."

"War tactics," Harry muttered. "I've seen them too many times. I never thought I'd have to see them again. I refuse to accept that."

"Lucifer cannot rise."

"No, but that doesn't mean we can't try something else," Harry said, stepping to meet Castiel. "We're going to try something else."

"We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone," Sam said, desperate. "Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die."

"We're wasting time with these mud monkeys," Uriel growled.

"I'm sorry. We have our orders."

"No, you can't do this. You're—you're angels," Sam said, shaking his head. He couldn't believe this.

"We have no choice."

"Of course you have a choice," Dean said, glaring at Castiel. It seemed he wasn't as faithless as Sam had thought. "I mean, come on, you've never, never questioned a crap order, what? What, are you both, just a couple of hammers?"

"Look, even if you can't understand it, have faith the plan is just."

"How can you even say that?"

"Have you been having tea with Dumbledore lately?" Harry accused, snapping his wand in Castiel's direction. "I followed directions blindly. Look how well that worked out for me."

Dean smirked. "Sorry boys. Looks like the plans have changed."

Castiel's eyes widened, and he shifted backward. "Think you can stop us?" Uriel asked.

"No," Dean answered, shaking his head. "But if you're going to smite this whole town, you're going to have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving."

"Plus, you know, they've got me." Harry was studying his ring. "And you kind of need me for this plan." He shrugged. "Just, you know, an FYI."

**Not my best work, but I wanted to get this put up ASAP, so here you are :D Rest of this episode to be posted Saturday or Sunday of this upcoming weekend. Might continue this mini-chap/rest of it thing thought; I kind of like splitting the chapters. What do you guys think?**


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